


a prism in the dark

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-25
Updated: 2010-11-25
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: For the record, Arthur hates being made.





	

"This," he shouts over the hail of machine gun fire, "was not my fault."

"That's as may be," Arthur shouts back, "but I'm still pissed about it." She swings up the M16 and cocks it as if to punctuate the sentence. Eames finds himself momentarily distracted by the lock of hair that falls loose around her cheek as she does it.

It occurs to him that she might always be flawless. She dispatches the assault team with an efficiency he remembers from the early days, from the days of fatigues and rations and utterly shit coffee. She had been the kind of leader men would die for. The kind of woman men would die for. The kind he would die for.

He raises his own weapon, peers through the sight, fires. "I think that's the lot," he tells her.

"No shit," she replies. "We're out of here. I'll kick out first; Eames, you follow. When he kicks out, the dream will collapse. Yusuf, you cover Ariadne when we're up there and get her out. Eames and I will bat clean up."

She draws a handgun from nowhere and slots it under her chin. "For the record? I fucking hate being made."

Eames is cocking his own gun when she fires.

 

 

 

 

 

He jerks awake into fucking _chaos_. Somebody knew they were coming, that's for sure—the tech Saito hired—Cameron? Carter?—is bleeding out on the hotel room floor, his hand still twitching, and Arthur has a cut on her cheek that matches the knife one of the goons twice her size is wielding. The whole room smells of blood, of copper. Eames wants to vomit.

In the desert his and Arthur's unit had come across a band of insurgents, twelve of them in a dug out cave. The skirmish had been uncomfortably similar to this—hostages coming to on the floor, the ripe smell of the dying, and Arthur, face impassive, utterly wrecking everyone within reach.

Eames catches the mark as he rises with an elbow to the nose, sending him staggering. He follows up with a low kick, sweeping the corporate dickbag off his feet and throwing him onto his ass. "Stay there," he quips, before flipping the taser out of his pocket and making sure the man does as he's told.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yusuf and Ariadne slip out the door. "We're clear, darling," he calls out into the—sudden silence.

He turns around. Arthur is barely breathing heavily, bodies littered around her, nary a scratch on her pointy-toed shoes. "Good," she replies, immediately moving towards the PASIV case. "That will be all, Mr. Eames."

Her hands are shaking.

Like hell, that will be all.

He doesn't speak, just moves through the room, patting down the bodies collecting the assorted weapons before following her out the door.

And down the hall.

And into the stairwell.

"I told you to leave," she says quietly, as they emerge through an emergency exit she rigged a day ago. "I meant it. Get out of here, Eames." She throws it over her shoulder, already heading out of the alley. He's glad she can't see the twist in his expression as he follows after her, like a stray dog.

"I'm not leaving, Arthur."

This time, she does look back, a scathing glare punctuated by a twitch in her jaw. "I hate you," she bites out, and keeps walking.

"Not going to stop me from following you home, love," he calls out, and if he's never used that pet name before neither of them are going to acknowledge it now.

She has the decency to let him split the cab.

 

 

 

 

 

For two days, she's fine. She makes him sleep on the sofa, orders delivery when he tries to cook, hogs the remote. By the second day she's got her bare feet in his lap, which he's taking as a good sign.

Well, he would if Arthur weren't the only person in the world he can't read like he can everyone else.

He rests a palm on her ankle, tracing the line of the bone. "You all right, Arthur?" he asks finally.

She looks up at him, and he meets her eyes. "No, Eames," she replies, voice steady. "No, I'm not."

He surges towards her just as her careful composure shatters, leaving her shuddering wetly into the juncture of his shoulder. "It's all right, love," he murmurs into her hair, even though it's not, even though he knows—and she _knows_ he knows—that the memories never fade and the job never lets up. "It's all going to be all right."

Last time it had been an army cot, not a hotel suite sofa, a young army lieutenant, not the best point man in the business. Last time he had held her until she slept, shed no tears of his own, kept her body within arm's reach the night through. They'd never spoken of it again, but they've worked better together ever since. He wonders if it's inappropriate to think fondly of the moment—to think of it as the beginning—now.

"Eames," she whispers finally, mouth on his neck. "Eames, I'm tired."

He shuts his eyes. "I know you are, darling, I know—I would buy you an island, I swear, if I didn't think you'd be bored there."

"That's not what I mean, Eames," she murmurs, lifting her head to look into his eyes, and _oh_ , now he understands. "I'm tired of this. Tired of the dance, tired of the chase, tired of not knowing what's going on with us but knowing there is an us and I'm just _exhausted_ , Eames. Can I please stop running, now?"

"Oh, Arthur," he sighs, her mouth unbearably close. "I thought you'd never ask."

She puts her hands on his face, the short, dark nails brushing over his cheekbones, and kisses him lightly, eyes fluttering closed.

They are silent, after, for a very long time.


End file.
